Meet the Coronials II

April 20, 2020

by dana gonzalez

In Meet the Coronials, we learned this was a term newly coined for the youth enduring this crazy pandemic. I’d suggested that we are all actually Coronials and I’m cementing that now. Nobody is unaffected by the instantaneous changes to our lifestyle that are, sadly lasting longer than our manicures, our hair color and our desperate need for the skilled touch of a masseuse, or the magical manipulations of our chiropractor.

I for one, am faced with grey hair. At my age, I’m sure there’s a lot of it – makes sense. More, since my lovely, shiny children became simmering teenagers, but that’s for a therapist and padded walls to sort out. I just have never actually seen the grey before, thanks to salon lightening, toner and gloss. What are the chances, after this is all over that I’m going to get in for highlights before 2021? None. What to do, when you can’t get a decent salon color job? Lemon juice and Sun-In. My 2020 do, battery acid and rust.

Meanwhile, our children are beginning to look like Chia Pets, with no end in sight. We’ve got a 17-year-old Robert Redford turning Farrah Faucett. Got an outgrown crew-cut going all Rod Stewart and a once-bouncy flock of curls heading to Jim Morrison abandon. Interesting how hair left to its own devices regresses so seamlessly to the 1970s. None of us are equipped to tame the collective beast that is our unstoppable hair growth. The Coronials will be known for their ape-like tresses.

Eyebrows are growing together as I type, braces are rusting, tattoos are fading and emerging fashion trends are becoming passé without ever hitting the market. Bowling shoes will sanitize by default.  

Whatever else happens, we Homo sapiens are going to come out of this looking like Neanderthals. Hairy, with bad teeth. Are those conditions enough to prevent another baby boom? Time will tell.

While I would say that men are in a much better position to weather the cosmetic avalanche crashing down about us during this period of subpar hygiene, we are running up against the unutterable. 

There is shaggy. There is unkempt. We have dreadlocks, we have mophead and “gas station attendant.” There are many looks for the neglectful American male. In the past, for ease of maintenance, some misguided souls have opted for the perm. Others preferred a loose feathered look. There is the comb-back coif, aided by substantial amounts of grease and finger massage – and, for some a good old baseball cap, frontwards or back – it contains the mane. 

Yet at this point, I would like to suggest that we are balls deep in an irreversible situation. Every home has scissors. Most do not have people in the home who are able to apply them to hair. But, what happens when you shave it? Or worse, just shave some. The underpart on three sides. Allowing a bit of froth at the top, flowing over in the back, shorter in the front. Sound familiar?

Yes, it’s The Mullet. 

Coronavirus and the subsequent Coronials it spawns will re-kindle this loathsome, odious excuse for follicular management as sure as you can say Norelco Multi-Groom Hair Trimmer for Men. A staple in every household bathroom cabinet. It was originally purchased to perform bowl-cuts on toddlers and crew cuts for those too young to realize they were walking velcro. 

The mullet, a once-shaggy lid popularized by the Beastie Boys and Billy Ray Cyrus, was a signature look for the bad boys and ner-do-wells of fashion’s pale, hairy underbelly. Considered edgy, the cut, easy to affect, was all business up front and a party in the back. It was also known as Mississippi Mudslide,” the ‘Tennessee Tophat,” the “Wisconsin Waterfall,” and allowed a guy to cross dress as the boy next door by day and then ‘party all night long’. A practical option for those without a salon stylist, it can be worn loose or spiky – either way it’s the most spectacular shag to ever brush the top of a turned-up Izod collar. 

In these “uncertain times,” we will, mark my words, see an unfortunate surge in the Mulletted masses. Hell, we already have Joe Exotic from Tiger King!

With males feeling clean above the ears, hair cascading over the crop, their unicorn manes not necessarily accompanied by wife-beater tank tops, but also flowing over white collars and Judges’ robes. The Mullet will resurface as the everyman do, reinventing as the Coronaveil – I’m copyrighting that term now. Hair for Coronials. Hair for the people.

It’s too easy.